


Dripping

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [57]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Come Eating, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Orgasm Control, handjobs, oops i made a sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:05:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3484196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series.</p><p>John makes Sherlock breakfast with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dripping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> oops i made a sequel to "french." but my perfect girlfriend asked me to so it doesn't count.

The bread sizzles in the pan. The element is hot and John can feel it, radiating against his chest, his face, his arms propped up on either side of it. Sherlock moans in his ear, soft and intense, and John braces himself against the stove as Sherlock’s hips roll into him and his cock slips deeper into John’s body.

"Fuck," Sherlock hisses. "I love how warm you are." He pumps a fist over John’s cock from behind and John groans and arches back into him.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he breathes. "I was trying to make you breakfast, you impossible git."

Sherlock chuckles, the sound vibrating through his body and into John’s and John whines as Sherlock thrusts into him again. A thumb slides over the tip of John’s cock, slippery with precome.

"I’m having breakfast right now," Sherlock rumbles against his neck, and pushes into John again.

John groans. He can feel the edges of his orgasm creeping up on him, the faint stirrings of almost-there and he whimpers and pumps his hips, trying to find that spot inside him.

Sherlock laughs and twists a hand over his cock again. “You want to come, don’t you? What will you do for me if I let you?”

"Anything. God, Sherlock, anything."

"Excellent," Sherlock says, and this time when he thrusts into John there is the lightning hit of his cock on John’s prostate and John cries out, his hips snapping backwards, his fingers gripping the edge of the stove.

"Fuck yourself for me, John," Sherlock says in his ear. "I promise not to stop you."

"Git," John gasps and considers being stubborn, but his hips piston backwards outside of his control and he unwillingly whines with the desperation in his body as he tries to fuck his cock in the circle of the hand that surrounds it, impaling his arse on Sherlock buried deep inside him at every backwards thrust. He can feel the frantic desperation of his body slowly taking over, control slipping easily away. He gyrates back and forth, split between Sherlock’s cock deep in his arse and Sherlock’s hand, firmly circled around him and he groans loudly. He’s close. _God,_ he’s so close. He can hear himself babbling, incoherent words, and he knows he’s begging only because he can feel the vibrations deep inside him every time Sherlock laughs against his ear.

"John," Sherlock moans, and teeth find the edge of an ear lobe and John whimpers, his cock twitching against his belly, his balls pulling tight between his spread legs. "John, you’re so tight. I love you like this. Mindlessly falling apart on my cock. Begging me to fuck you even when you know I won’t. I love to watch you like this too much to ruin it. I love to watch you fall apart, knowing you’re the only one to blame for it. Knowing you’re the one who’s driving yourself crazy, trying to see how deep you can get me, seeing how far inside you can make me go. God, John, you’re beautiful like this. The moments before you come, flushed and warm and whining, begging me in that breathless whimper. The absolute loss of control as you stop trying to hide everything and you let yourself fall apart instead. I love to watch you while you make yourself come. Come for me, John. Let me see you come."

"Sherlock," John gasps, and can hear the name clearly in his own voice. "Sherlock. Oh God, oh God Sherlock _Sherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlock please oh god yes yes yes yesyesyesyesyesyesyes….”_

_"John! Come!"_

And he does, with a shattering cry of release and he can feel the clench of Sherlock’s cock, buried deep in his hole as the relief of his orgasm tears into him. He is aware of Sherlock’s teeth tight against the back of John’s neck, the hiss and spatter of his own come in the frying pan. He whimpers as it leaves him, hollowing him and out and draining, and he nearly falls forward into the stove but for Sherlock arms, tightly wound around him, holding him up.

"John," Sherlock breathes against his neck, the words pressing into his skin. "John, my beautiful John."

"Sherlock. Jesus Christ," John moans, and he can feel the words slurring against his tongue.

"You’re doing so well, John. So well."

"This had better not have been some elaborate excuse to get out of eating breakfast."

"I told you, John. This is my breakfast," Sherlock growls, and pumps his hips and John gasps at the sensation, at the burn of the cock still buried deep inside him. "You, however," Sherlock says. "Definitely need to eat. Pick up the French toast, John."

"What?"

"The French toast in the pan, John. Pick it up," and he thrusts his hips again, dragging a strangled groan from John who stares at the pan on the stove, the wilted bread, egg-yellow and cinnamon brown, with the glossy white streaks of his come dripping down its sides.

"Sherlock."

"Pick. It. Up." And each word it punctuated by his cock, thrusting into John’s hole.

The spatula is on the worktop and John reaches for it, his hand shaking as he slides it unsteadily under the slice of bread in the pan. He drops it twice before he manages to get it out and behind him Sherlock licks a stripe against the side of his neck.

"Good. Now, take it in your hand and eat it."

"Sherlock."

"Quiet. No more talking, John. Not until you’ve eaten your breakfast."

John stares at the bread. A small droplet of his come slips off of it and drips onto his hand.

"All of it, John," Sherlock says, and John can feel the twitch of his cock between his legs, already fighting to get hard again.

He takes it between his fingers. It’s hot but it’s cooled enough that it doesn’t burn. He puts the spatula back down and feels the slide of his own come dripping down his hand.

He can’t believe he’s about to do this.

"John," Sherlock says. _"Eat."_

And John’s never been able to resist that voice. Has never said no to it in his life. He brings the French toast to his mouth and eats.

Behind him, Sherlock groans loudly and his cock twitches, hard and invasive in the red ring of John’s hole. “Good,” he breathes. “Oh that’s very good, John. Now don’t drop it,” he says, and John holds on, eating his breakfast, licking up the come, salty and sweet with cinnamon and sugar as Sherlock fucks him hard against the stove.


End file.
